Distractions End in Disaster (Like Everything Else)
by DaSwampRat'sCherie
Summary: *SPOILERS FOR AGE OF ULTRON* Life would have been better if genetically enhanced people didn't distract Clint. Clint-centric, rated for swearing.


As soon as I saw him get hit in beginning of the movie, I was excited (does that make me sick? That makes me sick). I knew I had to elaborate on that experience.

And thoughts on Laura? I've recently found out she is indeed in the 1610 Ultimate universe in the comics, which consoles me greatly. Also, I've convinced myself that, since she and the kids are tragically killed in the comics to get to Clint, maybe that will be a lead-up to his stance Civil War. His identity being publicized (it would have been known if not widely from the SHIELD files leaked in CA:TWS, which, why didn't that reveal the family?) and his family targeted would make him join Cap on the anti-super-hero-registration team. Thoughts on that theory?

Feedback such as favorite and reviews are adored! Also, this is pretty much hot off the press, so please feel free to point out mistakes. Except for the gratuitous abuse of commas, italics, and these things " - "

**Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no**

* * *

Okay, so that was pretty fuckin' weird.

The dude moved so fast that he would have thought it was the wind (you know, if he weren't a badass super-hero assassin). And he was so focused on listening for where the speedster was and would likely _go_, that he paid little attention the surrounding turrets and found himself shoved to the ground with the force of the shot that burned through his side.

That hurt like a son of a _bitch_.

He breathed in sharply through his teeth, craning his neck down to see the nasty looking gouge.

He heard his name being called over the comms, but he couldn't really bring himself to reply. He was a little too busy just trying to stay conscious.

"_Clint? Clint where are you?"_

"_Hawkeye, report!"_

"_Barton, now would be a good time to hear the melodious voice of yours I hate so much."_

"_I've got eyes; he's down. It looks pretty bad_."

And as bad as it looked, it hurt about 500% more. Definitely worse than a bullet. Hell, definitely worse than electrocution and that was probably his least favorite, though being impaled really _sucked_.

He heard the ground shift around him, twigs snapping and leaves crunching as someone came towards him and he scrambled to raise his bow. If he was going down he wouldn't be the only one.

He struggled to sit up, his arrow nocked and ready to loose even as he was still mostly lying in the snow (the chill wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped it would be).

"Clint, stop it before you kill yourself," Oh.

Nat. Nat was safety. He lowered his hands and jostled his neck around to find her. Turned out he didn't have to because suddenly she was crouched above him, prodding at his side with careful but determined fingers.

"Fuck, really?" He huffed in a half-pant, half-grunt, half-cry of pain (so there couldn't technically be three halves; go ahead and make fun of the dying man without a proper education).

"Shut up. You're the one who let yourself get shot," she chided though the worry seeped into her voice. Which really sucked because with as much as he got himself hurt, she only sounded truly anxious when it was _bad_.

"'Let?'" He coughed, and the wet feeling in his mouth and on his lips informed him there was probably blood. He quickly swiped at it before Nat could notice, her eyes too busy scrutinizing his side. "I didn't 'let' anything happen, smart ass. I - "

"_Seriously, Hawkeye, you should stop talking to conserve energy."_

"So should your mom," he snarked back at Cap, but obeyed anyway because it really was making it harder to - well, _anything_.

"It's pretty serious, we need an evac," Nat pronounced pulling some salve from one of her many pockets (or maybe her bra; he loved teasing her about the time she whipped a not only a knife, but a USB drive and a mini gun from the _same side_).

"'M fine," he mumbled, again making a pathetic attempt to sit up.

"_Hot damn, yes you are, Barton._" from Tony this time, in that ridiculous flirty voice he pulled out all too often.

"Language," he panted, cutting himself off short because a particularly sharp pang shot out and spread to the very tips of his toes.

"_I'm never living that down, am I?_"

"_Nope," _Tony sounded pretty gleeful.

"_I will come to retrieve friend Barton,_" Thor announced, and Clint was pretty sure he said something else but his vision was going fuzzy and his hearing was muffled and it was a solid thirty seconds before he realized he had mumbled about needing to change his hearing aids because everything sounded too hazy.

"Thor will be here in just a moment, okay? I gotta go help the others. Will you stay put and behave, or do you need me more than the team does?" Nat said too much for his brain to process, so he just sluggishly blinked at her.

Her face was drawn tight and her shoulders ever so slightly hunched, and he had seen that look in her eyes enough to know what she had probably asked.

"Go," he told her softly (at least he thought he did). He must have, because one second she was there and the next she wasn't.

This sucked such major dick. Here he was, in the middle of some country he'd never really heard of but was basically just like Canada or Russia or any of those other hellishly cold places he loathed so much. And, oh hey, don't forget that he had a mother of a burn and a huge chunk of skin straight-up _gone _because some genetically enhanced freak had distracted him.

Being just human sucked major dick too.

(Especially on a team full of superheroes).

But no use lying there in the middle of the ground with abso-fucking-lutely no protection, so he slowly dragged himself to the nearest tree and propped himself up against the trunk.

He thought maybe he dozed, because he was jolted awake when Thor's landing literally shook the earth and caused some snow to cascade from the trees. Onto him, so yeah, his life was hell.

"Friend Barton, I am here to take you to the jet," he spoke as he walked towards him, extending a hand that Clint batted away.

"'M fine. 'Can still fight," his words were slurring which so wasn't helping his case, and neither was the way he collapsed onto his ass after pushing himself up only a foot (probably not even).

"You are a true warrior, but even a warrior must concede to physical injuries," Thor told him, pitching his voice low in what he would admit to sounding soothing if it didn't make him sound so gay.

"Nah, 'm good." An explosion somewhere behind him had him jerking violently and trying to control his breathing. (And if he didn't make it clear already, any movement hurt like a son of a bitch, and that _included_ breathing).

Good times.

"Friend Barton, this debate is getting us no progress," the god huffed, sounding somewhere between amused and annoyed (which basically described the feelings toward him of half of the people he knew.)

He didn't have time to register the words much less reply, when suddenly Thor was heaving him up over his shoulder, and even though it was gentle he still let loose with a strangled cry because _holy shit that hurt. _

"I apologize, but it is necessary," at least he did actually sound regretful, which was the last thing Clint heard before he passed out cold.

. . .

He woke up in a panic, which he kinda tended to do more often than not, but that wasn't the point. The point he was, he woke up with some weirdo standing over him and he felt his legs strapped down and heard voices in his ear and _shit_ because right now he could be in about a thousand different of his most horrific memories and this wasn't -

"Friend Barton, it is all right. You need to calm yourself," A quiet voice told him, and maybe he would have believed had it not been for the hand pressing down on his chest, restricting his movement, restricting his _breathing_.

He scrabbled to gain leverage enough to get up and get _away_, hearing more voices, hearing explosions. Seeing dark metal walls and medical supplies in a half-open bag.

"Let me up," he thought he growled, but maybe he didn't. He didn't know much of anything at the moment.

"Agent Barton seems to be suffering some form of panic attack," Damn straight he was, bastard. It was kind of protocol when being held captive by torturing freaks!

"_Clint, Clint, it's Nat. Listen to my voice I need you to - " grunt, smash, gunfire " - You got hit, remember? We were on the mission attacking Hydra. You were complaining about the 'goddamn fucking cold' again."_

He choked on the air, and her words brought clarity - which included a heightened awareness of the shooting _agony_ in his side, and now he choked on vocalizing that. His face contorted from the open shock into a scrunched up attempt at staying quiet.

Nat was still comforting in his ear, and Thor's hand turned from a trap to a consolation.

"I'm - I'm good," he managed to ground out, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose.

"_Yeah, any time you want to not get shot and then have a panic attack, I think we'd all be on board with that_." Tony, of course, and then a warning from Cap that consisted simply of:

"_Stark_."

"'S'fine," Clint's voice was thick, but he was at least able to talk.

"Friend Barton, if you would now allow me to connect you to antibiotics and bandage your wound," Thor was right next to him, and he sounded too loud instead of the too _quiet_ he'd been experiencing. He opted for a nod, which hurt and had him rolling onto his side and vomiting out bile and that ham and cheese sandwich Nat had made him eat on the way.

Definitely tasted better the first time.

"_Shit, Barton, you puking?"_

"He is, indeed," Thor answered, rubbing soothing circles into his back and maybe murmuring gentle words, and maybe not because all he could focus on was the searing pain in his side each heave brought, which only made him throw up _harder_.

Fuck his life.

When he was finally done, he just lay in the same position and panted a few rancid breaths, trying to regulate something. It was another minute or so - silent other than the occasional battle noises on the other end - before he felt secure enough to flop over onto his back.

"Are you all right?" The god's brows were furrowed, and Clint knew it would be pointless to say yes, so just ignored the question altogether.

"Let's get me patched up."

Thor paused, but at last nodded and lumbered over to the med-kit, his footsteps too loud and the space too _small_.

"Let me - Let me put the IV in." He requested, because even though it'd been done a thousand times by other people, he still preferred to do it himself. If something was going into his body, he wanted to control it. Besides, he wasn't sure the god had ever actually done it.

Thor actually laughed at that. "I do not believe you are capable of something so intricate."

"Bullshit," it sounded more ragged and, quite frankly, pathetic than he would have liked, but some of his stubbornness did at least seep through. "Nat, tell him I've done more 'intricate' things in worse states."

That took him several pauses and sharp inhales to get out, which he figured wasn't helping his case, but whatever. He could practically hear Nat's eye roll when she responded with,

"_Yes. He's an idiot, but at least an idiot who knows what he's doing."_

Thor still looked dubious, but he did concede whilst muttering, "I want it known I do not approve of this."

"Duly noted, Fabio," he grumbled, reaching into the empty air for the needle.

Thor handed it over, looking ready to pounce and take over at basically any second.

His fingers shook and one hand had a slick coating of blood from when he'd moronically put it on his side.

But he did it in record time, and felt smug about the impressed look on Thor's face.

Which quickly changed into a feeling of what a treacherous bastard the god was when Thor connected another squishy bag of fluid, and he felt the pull of drug-induced sleep overtake him.

. . .

By the time he slowly began to emerge from the wonderful blackness, he heard several voices bickering and things shifting around and figured the mission was over and everyone was on board.

Hopefully everyone.

He jackknifed up - _ow, ow, motherfucking ow_ \- and in a flurry of motion three different hands shoved him back down.

"Stop being such a dumb-ass," Nat groused in Russian, and he flashed a weak grin, was grossed out that he could actually feel the light sheen of sweat that was on his face when he did so.

"We all got out just fine, except for you. Stupid." She added under her breath.

"Oh," was all he could think to say, then he tried looking down. His side was bandaged pristinely, and didn't hurt nearly so bad as it did earlier with whatever the hell was pumping through his system.

"You know, this is a bit like Caracas."

"You and I remember Caracas very differently," she smirked, smoothing his hair down in the mother-henning way she had but hid.

"Go back to sleep, we'll be here when you wake up."

He shook his head minutely, and reached his hand to brush against her fingers. "You find the speedster?"

"We'll talk about it when Cho gets the chance to look at you."

"You'll get to see me with my shirt off again."

She rolled her eyes. "Like I want to see that."

"You know you love it," and his words were slurring, which pissed him off because a few lines of banter shouldn't be that draining.

"Don't flatter yourself," she lowered her voice, because of course she knew he was on the brink of passing out. And maybe he would have, but Stark came over.

"Cho's updated and ready to receive our resident reckless - uh - ... Dammit, I can't think of anything to alliterate that with."

"Retard," Nat surprised helpfully, and he shot her a look of betrayal that she beamed at.

"Ah, thank you. Our resident reckless retard. Thanks for not dying on us."

The billionaire was gone before he could say anything, so he just stared blearily at Nat.

"I'm going to go talk to the rest of the team and let them know you're all right, 'kay?"

He nodded, trying to ignore the empty feeling he got when her fingers left his and he saw her walking away.

Sometimes he was needy when he sick and he fucking hated it.

(But not as much as he hated having them all talking about him on the other side of the jet.)

He sighed, pushing those thoughts away because there was no need to be drama queen. He sluggishly scraped a hand through his hair and wiped some of the sweat off of his face, then took to staring at the deep grey of the ceiling and listening to the dull murmur of his team.


End file.
